The morning passed quickly at the harbor, but inside Luke, time felt sharper, more organized. He knew one truth clearly: the twelve points he had gathered over a year of training were already spent. When he checked his status, the screen showed nothing left to assign. From here on, growth would come only from training and real battle.
He stood on the pier, staring at the endless horizon. Winning against mere street thugs was no longer a true measure. With his hardened fists, sharper kicks, and refined sword strikes, Luke understood the real tests were waiting at sea.
Fate brought him an opening. A small trade ship was leaving for a nearby port, carrying crates of grain and dried fish. The captain agreed to take him aboard. Luke thought for a moment, then stepped on deck—after all, the sea itself was the real classroom.
For three days, he observed silently. He didn't joke, didn't chatter, just watched the crew haul ropes, balance sails, and measure the winds. He was learning.
But on the third afternoon, the ocean shifted. Strange winds pushed into the sails, and the sailors froze as two small raiding boats appeared on the horizon. They weren't grand pirates with names feared in newspapers. Just ragged marauders—small-time sea bandits hunting an easy score.
The captain shouted, "Prepare to defend! We won't give them the cargo!" His voice was steady, but tension cracked in the air.
Luke, however, felt something else: calm. Not fear. Not hesitation. A quiet certainty settled into his bones. He remembered every repetition, every bead of sweat, every point he had spent to sharpen his fists, his kicks, and his sword. Now he would test them.
The first raider scrambled up onto the deck with a knife in his teeth. Two more followed, one armed with a stick, another trying to climb with a rope. Luke didn't wait.
He struck first. His fist shot forward—simple, clean, powerful. The man with the knife staggered back as if hit by a hammer, crashing into a pile of crates. Luke didn't stop to celebrate.
The second lunged with his stick. Luke dodged low, then countered with a swift kick, a solid strike from his Level 3 technique. The bandit was lifted off his feet and collapsed onto sacks of flour, gasping.
The third tried to haul himself up, rope taut between the ships. With a sideways slash, Luke's blade cut the rope clean, sending the man tumbling back into the boat. The raiding skiff tilted, and the rest lost their balance.
The fight ended in moments. No flashy speeches. No cheering crowd. Just the thud of defeated men and the silence of sailors staring at the boy who fought like a weapon.
The captain stepped forward, heavy boots on the deck, and placed a hand on Luke's shoulder. "Good work. You're with us for this voyage." His words carried respect, not ceremony.
No government bounty, no headlines. Just the unspoken truth: Luke had proven himself useful in real combat.
That night, he sat at the bow of the ship, the wind cool against his skin. He thought back on the twelve points he had spent—three to harden his punches, six to sharpen his sword, three to empower his kicks. His status showed no points left, but the difference wasn't in numbers anymore. It was in his body, in his strikes, in the way real battle sharpened everything.
He whispered to himself, "This is just the beginning. I'll gather experience, I'll survive bigger storms… every fight will be worth a life."
At dawn, the ship reached the next port. Luke stepped off, calm-faced, with a quiet strength the townsfolk didn't notice. But he knew: he had crossed another threshold.
The sea had tested him. And he was still standing.